Appearance
by Riley Hearth
Summary: When you look in the mirror, do you know who you see?


Appearance

A groaning sigh escaped him as the warm water washed over his face, through his hair, over his shoulders; aggravating and soothing the knots under the skin; erasing the scent of chemicals and oil. Steam swirled around in dancing patterns, clouding up the room and misting up the shower door. He let his mind go blank, an event transpiring once every century or so, and stared at the lifeless white tiling on the wall, everything so out of focus it was legal blindness.

So much had happened in the past few months… so many lives lost, families shattered…

No. He shook his head firmly, placing it directly under the stream of water, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't wander off into the inescapable. This was the only 'night off', as Ben had but it, life had allowed him in... How long had it been? Six months? Seven months..? I_Eight?_/I A meek noise, barely more than emphasized air forced from his lungs, came when his brain throbbed warningly. He didn't even know at this point. The earth had been fighting for over two years now, and hardly seemed to be making headway at all.

For all his life, Dexter had never once minded his workaholic schedules; the nights spent designing and planning, the meals and sleep missed, the hectic pace of production. It simply came with the territory he had been given. He excelled at working and living at such speed, completing tasks and changing common knowledge at a mind-boggling rate to many people. Lately, though, all the years of work had been catching up to him. Not only ones spent fighting Fuse, either. He began feeling regret for past decisions made, deeds long sense forgotten bubbling to the surface to glare at him; just another hundred pounds or so tossed upon his back.

Turning the cold, wet knobs off (it always kind of surprised him, how acutely he could feel without his gloves) the water receded and he stepped into the steamed room. Taking a plain white towel- like the walls, the tile, the snow when it wasn't stained green and red- folded neatly on the counter he began drying himself with it, scrubbing at his face and squeezing the moisture from his hair. Wiping off the fogged mirror as he did so, he picked up his glasses and slipped them on, then ran the towel quickly over his arms and torso. There really was no use in bothering to take his time getting ready for bed- not desk, bed. Did it matter though..? With a dry sigh, he turned to leave the room.

Only to stop in his tracks. He turned back to the mirror, a look of surprise on his young face. Grabbing onto the sink with one hand and leaning onto it, tossing the towel to the hamper's general direction, he wiped off the glass of the mirror once more and peered closely at his reflection. Blinking, he swiped the tinted lenses from his eyes and wiped them off, pushing them back on once certain they were clear.

…It was if he was looking at a completely different person. Oh, he was himself- that much was obvious. Hair, though still damp at the moment, still burned redder than many a flame, and the facial structure was still the same (if a smidge more angular now; it was a subtle change). Sky-blue eyes stared from beneath the mop of ginger, as they had from the first time he opened them. But there was something… entirely too different about this Dexter in the mirror from the one two years ago. His hair had grown longer and drooped down, curls obviously less bold and lively as they once were- even when they were wetted he could tell this. He had light scaring on his temple, and several scattered on his chest, and hands and arms, now that he looked. He didn't bother checking his back, as he was certain they were there, too. He had a particularly dark, deep looking scar stretching from his lowermost two ribs, crossing his stomach at an angle; he remembered the stitching for that one far too well. A series of gashes ranging from old to semi-healed, puncture wounds to menacing and wide lines, were slashed and scattered across his bony anatomy.

His skin was paler than he recalled; which was saying something. Practically agoraphobic when it came to playing outside as a child, he had always had a pale complexion. But this was something else entirely. Ghostlike. It was if every warm summer day, every Into The Garden trip with DeeDee, every lazily-write-sheets-of-music-in-the-sand-with-a-stick comfortable afternoon on the beach... had all been swept away. Leaving behind only a greylike skin tone that looked positively ill. Deep purple, painful looking half circles crowded under his eyes, bitter reminders of the weeks gone by with nothing but working, and perhaps a few pieces of food keeping him going.

His eyes were… his eyes were someone else's. Not his. The eyes staring back at him were exhausted and dull. Desperate. Heartbroken. They just looked so… tired. So very, excruciatingly tired. The self righteousness had faded, replaced by the sight of people- children, even- lying dead and dying all around him. The self assurance torn from him as he stared on into the darkening horizon, knowing every day could very well be their last alive. The pride, faded. In its place hovered the crying need for something, someone, he could hold to- cling to- and I_know_/I_,_ absolutely and without a I_trace_/I of I_doubt_/I_,_ KNOW would not leave. Would not vanish into the unknown, never to be seen again. Would not fade away as a grain of sand into the sea. Wouldn't leave those still here with that much less hope.

The weary eyes watered, and he stayed rooted where he was, dripping wet and cold, staring at his hollowed reflection and not even bothering to try and stop the stream of heart ache that flowed down his thinned face.

His knuckles whitened as he bit back a sob.

Someone who wouldn't leave this planet to die alone.

Wouldn't leave I_him_/I to die alone.


End file.
